Black and White and Mud and Pure
by pieces of silver
Summary: Dean Thomas has always wanted to be like everybody else. When he enters Hogwarts, skin color ceases to be an issue - but what about blood purity? And for Dean, who has always wanted someone to stand up for him, what will he stand up for? Short one-shot.


Dean Thomas remembers what it was like to be different. He remembers the taunts and leers of the children at his elementary school, the bullies who followed him home and the teachers who blatantly favored his schoolmates over him.

He remembers being called a nigger. He remembers the day when three kids from second grade tried to stone him to death. He remembers waking up to a graffitied house, a desecrated locker, a black eye and swollen lip.

But more than that, he remembers nobody standing up for him.

When he receives his Hogwarts letter, the first thing he does when he visits Diagon Alley is look for books on cosmetic charms. He doesn't know how to navigate through the shop, though, and he's afraid of asking the store attendant where to find charms to change his skin color. He's afraid, even, of drawing any attention to himself. But in the end it doesn't matter because he can't even perfect a _Lumos_ and more than that, his family can't afford anything in addition to all he needs for school.

And so he cringes when he sees a boy watching him on the Hogwarts Express. If the eleven-year-old tries to attack him, Dean doesn't know how to retaliate – except with his fists and his teeth, and he's sure if he hits another boy, a white boy, nobody will take his side.

When the kid scoots over next to Dean and introduces himself as Seamus Finnegan, Dean isn't sure how to react. Should he take the hand? Is it some sort of strange magic trick, and will he be hexed upon touching the other boy? Dean's been screwed over too many times in his short life and he's suspicious, but he doesn't realize it shows until the other boy smiles wider and says, "Hey, I won't bite."

Dean doesn't know it, but he's smiling back. He takes the hand and shakes it.

"Dean Thomas."

In the next fifteen minutes, he's almost certain that the other kid – Seamus – doesn't give two figs about his skin color, and he's nearly ecstatic. But he needs to be sure.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask – what's that on your face?"

He doesn't hear a malicious undertone, exactly, but he's heard jeering threats too often to not react. Dean recoils almost instantly and shies into himself, raising an arm unconsciously to protect himself. He knows he should have expected it, and that he was stupid to have let down his guard, but he really thought for once in his life he'd found a friend – found someone who could look past what he looked like.

When beggars ride, perhaps.

"Wait, hey, what are you doing? I didn't mean to... offend, or anything, but I've just never seen anything like them. Do they help you see or something? Is it a Muggle thing?"

Dean blinks and uncoils slowly. But...

"The things on your eyes?"

His _glasses_? Is that what Seamus means? Not his... skin?

"... They're, uh, glasses. They – yeah, they help me see. If I don't wear them, my eyesight gets all blurry, 'cuz I read in the dark too much."

Yeah, right. He was punched in the face too much.

Seamus gives him a look that very plainly says he thinks Dean is stupid. "But that's stupid." _Why, thank you very much. _"Why don't you just use an Eyesight Charm or something?"

Huh?

"Huh?"

"Don't tell me you've never heard of a – oh, right, you were brought up by Muggles. But that's okay! Come on!" Seamus grabs his hand and pulls him right out of the compartment and Dean's still reeling, stumbling behind him. Seamus throws open a door marked "Prefects" and loudly announces that Dean can't see too well, can someone help him?

A tall, spindly boy looking to be about sixteen, wearing a badge of striped blue and silver, sniffs haughtily and flicks his wand in Dean's direction, never even bothering to look up from his book, and in the next second, the world turns into a blob of blurred colors. Seamus grins hugely and plucks the glasses from his face, returning everything to its former sharpness, and drops them on the floor. "You won't be needing those anymore!"

Dean isn't sure, but he thinks he's made his first ever friend. He beams and beams and Seamus looks at him like he's touched in the head but all he does is smile wider.

When he's settled at Hogwarts, though, he finally realizes that even if race or skin color doesn't matter in the wizarding world, magical heritage does. And he thinks maybe this is even stupider than racial segregation and prejudice because how can you even _tell_ if someone was born to non-magical parents?

But Dean doesn't say anything because he's been granted partial immunity; his Mum is a witch and so he's half-blooded, which he can tell is a thousand times better than being a Muggleborn. And nobody cares about his skin color, he's doing well in his studies, and he's making more friends in Gryffindor Tower. Life for him is – amazing, really. Better than it has ever been before.

He can't help but notice, however, how the other students treat the Muggleborns – hexing them surreptitiously in the corridors, when Prefects and Professors aren't looking, calling them "Mudblood," slipping newts' eyes into their Potions and watching in glee as Professor Snape tears them apart in front of the class.

Dean remembers what it was like at his old elementary school, the other kids gathered in a circle around him and throwing pebbles at him, stealing his bicycle, taunting him mercilessly. And he remembers how all he ever wanted was someone to be on his side.

He also remembers who he is now – Dean Thomas, Gryffindor, _halfblood_, and he says nothing.

But when he walks down the corridors he can't help noticing the way the Purebloods walk: like tigers, shedding grace and power, but also authority. _I have a right to be here_, they say with every step they take. And implied is, _You don't_. Neither can he help noticing the way the Muggleborns walk: as if unsure of their place in the world, but sent tumbling into it with one sure fact of life – they don't belong. They're infringing, treading on forbidden ground, corrupting it with every breath they take and every step they leave behind. They cringe away from contact, they hunch their shoulders, they try their best not to be seen, not to be noticed.

Dean remembers when he used to walk like that.

He also remembers who he is now – Dean Thomas, Gryffindor, _halfblood_, and he pretends he sees nothing.

But it's hard to see nothing when nothing is right in front of you, twisting and bleeding on the ground and screaming to be something.

Oh, it's hard.

But Dean Thomas has lived a hard life, and he knows how to get by.


End file.
